G is for Gumshoe (Kinsey Millhone 7)

The librarian approached, smiling politely. "Find what you were looking for?"

"Not really," I said. "Would you have anything else?"

He took up his field guide with patient interest in our plight. "Let's see here. Well… it looks like there was an aftershock to that nineteen twenty-five earthquake. Here… June twenty-nine, nineteen twenty-six… exactly one year later to the day. One fatality. The only other earthquake of note would have been November four, nineteen twenty-seven, but there were no fatalities recorded in that one. Would you like to take a look at the one in 'twenty-six?"

"Sure."

We went back to the same machine, repeating the process of threading the film. Again, we flew through the calendar, time flashing by in a whir of gray. As we reached the end of the reel, I slowed the machine, hand-cranking my way from day to day, scanning one column at a time. Dietz was leaning over my shoulder, making sure I didn't miss anything. I was losing hope. I thought it was a good theory-hell, it was my only theory. If this didn't pay off, we were out of luck.

I read about Babe Ruth, who'd just hit his twenty-sixth homer of the season back in Philadelphia. I read about some woman whose six-year marriage was annulled when she found out her former spouse was still alive. I read about Aimee Semple McPherson's stout defense of her alleged kidnapping at the hands of strangers…

"There it is," Dietz said. He put a finger on the screen.

I let out a yelp and laughed. Six library patrons turned around and looked at me. I put a hand across my mouth sheepishly. I peered at the machine. It was like a gift- such an unexpected pleasure-lines leaping off the page. The article was brief and the style faintly antique, but the facts were clear and it all seemed to fit.

WOMAN KILLED AS BRICKS FALL

Chimney Crushes Out the Life of Local Resident

Emily Bronfen, 29-year-old bookkeeper employed by Brookfield, McClintock and Gaskell, met death yesterday afternoon when bricks fell from a chimney at the family home, 1107 Sumner Street, and crushed her during an earth tremor at 3:20 p.m. The body was taken to the Donovan Brothers funeral parlor and will be cremated today at 4:00.

The Associated Press reported that the shock, which swung doors at Pasadena and swayed hanging electric light drops at Santa Monica, was also felt in Los Angeles, where occupants of office buildings noticed their swivel chairs doing a wild shimmy along the floor.

Venture reported two separate shocks lasting about four or five seconds each. Santa Monica reported a second shock shortly after 7:00 last night.

L. L. Pope, Santa Teresa City Building Inspector, made the rounds of the city yesterday afternoon and reported that he found no damage to any building erected under provisions of the new building code. "There was very little structural damage of any kind," he declared. "It was virtually all confined to old fire walls, some of which were fractured in the earthquake of one year ago…"

I turned and looked up at Dietz. We locked eyes for a moment and his mouth came down on mine. I'd reached a hand up, closing my fist in his hair. He reached a hand down my shirt and rubbed his fingertips across my left breast.

"Print it," he said hoarsely.

"Oh God," I breathed.

At the counter, the librarian pulled his glasses down and peered at us over the rims.

Blushing, I straightened my collar and adjusted my shirt. I pressed the button. We picked up an invoice for the photocopy at the desk when we turned in the microfilm. We left the periodicals room without further reference to the two librarians, who seemed to be conversing together about some terribly amusing subject.

"Bronfen. I like that. It's close enough to Bronte," I said as I followed him up the stairs. "The parents must have been big on Victorian literature."

"Possibly," Dietz said. "I don't know what it proves at this point."

On the main floor, we checked back through various city directories. The 1926 edition showed a Maude Bronfen (occupation, widow) at the address listed in the paper. "Shoot," I said. "I was hoping we'd find Anne."

Dietz said, "Maude was probably their mother. What now?"

"Let's try the Hall of Records. It's just across the street. Maybe we can track down Irene's birth certificate."

We paid for the photocopy, left the library, and headed over to the courthouse, crossing the one-way street. Dietz had taken me by the elbow, his gaze divided equally among cars approaching from the left, pedestrians in the general vicinity, and possible vantage points in the event Mark Messinger had chosen this location to pick me off. "So what's the operating theory here?" I asked.